


A Gleeful Villain

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Relationship, F/M, Moriarty POV, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 23:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14151918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: A rather fluffy look at "Jim from IT" and Molly Hooper on their Glee-watching date.





	A Gleeful Villain

**Author's Note:**

> weweremadeforeachothersherlock on tumblr said: March 29 this blog-canon anniversary of when Molly Hooper, her cat Toby, and Jim Moriarty all sat down together to watch Glee.Celebrate this fun fact however you see fit.
> 
> This is how I saw fit. Enjoy a bit of Molliarty fluff.

He expected to hate every second of it: the flat, the cat, the show, the snacks. It was all a game, and sometimes to win one had to endure tedium.

The flat would be flowery, girly, cluttered and mismatched - just like Molly Hooper's detestable taste in clothing. The cat would be overweight, spoiled, demanding, a fur-shedding menace. Not that he planned to keep his 'Jim from IT' clothing for long anyway, but he just KNEW he'd have to burn the damn jeans and cheap Primark button-up rather than risk getting fur in his pristine flat. The snacks would be either heated up frozen crap or greasy takeaway or perhaps a bowl of chips and a few cans of whatever canned lager was on sale that week. And the show…Glee? A show about teenagers singing pop songs? Just… _no_. He shuddered to think of it.

_Eye on the prize, Jim,_  he counseled himself as he pressed the buzzer outside the door of the flat Molly had inherited from her parents.  _Sherlock Holmes is worth any amount of…_

His thoughts stuttered to a stop as the door opened and he beheld Molly Hooper Not In Work Clothes for the first time. The jeans and blouse were well fitted, unlike the tacky oversized dustbin rejects she wore beneath her oversized lab coat, although the blouse was still an eye-wateringly bright floral pattern. She gave him a shy smile and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear - hair worn loose instead of pulled back in a practical ponytail.

His stuttered hello was far more authentic than he'd intended, and as he entered the flat, he found himself even more on the back foot.

Instead of the craphole he'd so smugly envisioned, Molly's sitting room was a cool, well-designed mixture of comfort and practicality, a vision in soothing greys and whites with the occasional splash of colour. Not professionally created, or leftovers from her parents, either; a flick of the eye told him this was all Molly's doing. His compliment on her taste was entirely sincere, and the small blush on her cheeks warmed the approximate spot in his chest where folks claimed he had a heart.

He ignored his reactions, intent on holding fast to his other preconceptions, but alas, it was not to be. Toby was a rangy tomcat who sniffed his ankles but disdained to be pet by either Molly or himself (and to whom Molly spoke, not in a simpering Cat Lady croon, but in a tone of fond exasperation uncomfortably like the way she often spoke of Sherlock), and made himself scarce as soon as they settled on the sofa together. The food was homemade spring rolls with a light, crispy outside and deliciously tangy inside. She admitted to using a store-bought duck sauce for dipping, but it was high-end - Sainsbury's, possibly Harrods. He would check on the brand later, and not just to confirm his suspicions - he had a weakness for duck sauce and hadn't tasted this one before.

As for the show…well. It was, as expected, rather dull and predictable except for the singing bits. He was far more entertained by the musical parts than he had a right to be, and not just because of the show, but because of the company. Molly wasn't nearly as giggly and silly at home, surrounded by her own things, as she was at St. Bart's or the local pub where they'd met up for drinks on their first date. She was far more at ease, and he could envision spending hours with her here, the flat and her company becoming something of an escape, a bolthole, when things got too stressful - or tedious - in his real life.

_No._  He pulled back from that alarming thought with a mental start that actually translated to physical movement; when Molly asked him if he was all right, he managed a facsimile of a shy grin and pretended he'd been about to stretch his arm along the back of the sofa, managing to deliberately bumble his way through asking her if that would be all right.

And when she snuggled up against him, her head on his shoulder…his eyes closed and he inhaled deeply of her strawberry-and-vanilla scent, with the slightest whiff of lemon beneath it all. More high end products to cover the stench of the morgue. He rather wished she wouldn't go to such lengths; there was nothing like a hint of decomp to grab a man's attention.

Shit. He needed to get out of here before his brain turned entirely to mush. He was James Moriarty, for God's sake, not some besotted teenager with spots and sweaty palms! Jim from IT was just a persona, and he'd never felt himself more in danger of sinking into another personality as he was right now. But he couldn't just bolt; the game was still on, he had yet to meet his opponent and gauge his ability to see through a disguise as perfect as the one he was going to present him with. He still needed Molly Hooper, no matter how dangerous she'd suddenly become.

He managed to sit through two full episodes of Glee and choke down more of the delicious spring rolls and drink three glasses of the (actually very good) white she'd paired the snack with. He even endured her aloof cat's sudden interest in sitting on his lap; the purr was soothing and he'd forgotten how relaxing it could be to just run his hands over a soft, furry, still living animal. Oh, he would snap its neck in a heartbeat should the need arise, but for now…for now, he could admit to himself that it wasn't actually that bad.

And when the evening came to an end and he regretfully rose to his feet, Molly walking him to the door, he did what he'd sworn he would detest the most - he kissed her good night, awkwardly bumping noses at first but then giving in to the impulse to see what it was like to kiss her as himself and not as her bumbling beau.

Her lips were soft and tasted of wine and duck sauce and he very nearly threw her up against the door for a proper snog and perhaps something more, but the cold warning voice in the back of his head reminded him that such actions would give the game away, frighten the prey, destroy everything he'd worked so hard (well, not that hard, but still) to build.

So he ended the kiss, smiled softly at his date, and said (entirely, utterly sincerely, a first for him), "Thank you, Molly Hooper. I had a wonderful time."

The memory of the evening kept a smile on his lips the entire ride back to his own flat, and if any of his men noticed it, they were smart enough to keep their comments to themselves.

Especially when he ordered the complete series of Glee be delivered to him before dawn.


End file.
